


Mille-Feuille

by cuddlebone



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Enemies to Friends to Lovers(ish), M/M, Rich and Rotten Boarding School Boys just about sums it up, Rivalry, Self-Indulgence Absolutely Galore, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 22:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17353511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlebone/pseuds/cuddlebone
Summary: Wonwoo takes his time; Soonyoung bites off more than he can chew.(Soonyoung and Wonwoo spend their winter in a boarding school in the mountains.)





	Mille-Feuille

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: the most lighthearted thing i've written to date but also the most chaotic haphazard flaming wreck of weird sexual tension and flirting and snark. mentions of sexual content/vague sexual content. also they're supposed to be rotten and entitled and arrogant rich boys so if that's not your thing don't read this...
> 
> Long time no see. I haven't posted anything since August, huh...

Savor the sight before it flits past, like a split-second view does through a train window, like a crowd disperses and the faces within it are blurred from memory. Savor the taste on your tongue before it loses its sweetness.

 

The station is all polished metal and tarnished leather, full of boys and luggage, smelling of cigarette smoke lingering in cold air. It faces mountains, peaks dusted with an early-autumn smattering of snow, blushing rosy under the light of an orange sun setting through blue clouds. The number of times Soonyoung has seen this all before stretches across both of his hands, but still he finds something to savor in it every year.

 

He’s sitting on the very edge of the platform; his legs are dangling down, and if he jumps, he lands on the train tracks. He’s bored, so he chooses to watch the other students board. Every once in a while someone he knows greets him. Every once in a while he twists the lollipop, rolling it across his lips, and coating them in the sheen of tartness he so craves.

 

Then Soonyoung catches a glimpse of something new. A stranger on the platform, a sight so starkly beautiful that he tries his hardest to savor it. He’s vulnerable yet intimidating, wrapped in rippling black furs, eyes sharp and dangerous yet rimmed with something like wonder.

 

He walks past Soonyoung without noticing him. The heavy scent of a cologne lingers behind him, and Soonyoung grins crookedly at his retreating figure, at his broad shoulders and his black hair, watching him weave through the crowd, deft as silk and shadows. His head rises a little above the other boys’, and his earrings glint.

 

Soonyoung only had to take one fleeting look at him, at the way he looked standing there, drawn together and alone and aloof, to know he wants to know everything about him, and it’s odd, because he’s never felt this way about anyone else in this school. He already knows he wants to unravel him, his heart, his secrets, his past, his future, starting with the coat and uniform he’s wrapped in. He doesn’t even have to hear his voice to know he wants the words that linger on his lips.

 

Soonyoung gets up, dusting off his pants and, finding that its taste isn’t half as enticing anymore, throws his lollipop down so it clatters and breaks across the tracks.

 

 

 

The school grounds are a second home to him, so well-mapped in his mind that he takes it all- from the huge gates and grey walls, overgrown with ivy and raspberry, to the arches and citadels and acres of coniferous forest- for granted. This makes him something of an alumnus, as far as the schoolboys’ hierarchy goes.

 

Soonyoung has been here for so long that he’s managed to have it all his way. He’s been able to mold himself from scratch, pave his own path, set his own pace, fit himself into a certain picture that now comes to all of the boys’ minds when they think of him.

 

All he has to do to plateau, to make it so that everyone has some sort of loyalty, admiration, or at the very least lenience towards him, is the occasional reinforcement. Last year, he ruined the principal’s office without leaving as much as a fingerprint of evidence. This year, he thinks he might disappear, on some idyllic midwinter vacation a few countries away, only to make an eventual, triumphant return.

 

Beneath it all, Soonyoung isn’t half as vain as he’s made himself seem, but he doesn’t really care whether people know that or not. The bottom line is this: rejection isn’t something that comes easy to him. It’s a concept so foreign that he can’t quite wrap his head around it.

 

So when the opportunity presents itself for his taking, he asks the boy he’s set his sights on something silly. “You come here often?” Soonyoung jokes, without a care in the world, smiling and leaning against one of the delicately-sculpted twin busts framing the bottom of the staircase.

 

“You ask people questions you know the answers to often?” He answers coldly, without turning or so much as looking over his shoulder from where he stands, paused between the first and second mottled marble steps. His voice is richer and lower than Soonyoung could have ever dreamed of it being, and it sends a shiver like wildfire up his spine. “Cheap but effective way of grabbing my attention, though.”

 

 A hush spreads through the hall they’re standing in after his words echo through it, like the hush that falls over a forest of birds after a hunter’s gunshot sounds. Because everyone is always keeping an ear and an eye out for Soonyoung and whatever he may be doing. Soonyoung feels the flames of both anger and intrigue within him.

 

He whistles, knowing it isn’t allowed within school buildings, but needing something to save face and restore his upper hand on the situation. “What will it take to get you to turn around and talk to me, then?” Soonyoung abandons his post, stopping only when he stands behind the boy. He’s looking at the nape of his neck, and what little he can see of his face, the rise and fall of sharp cheekbones trailing into his jawline, all glowing under the overhanging chandeliers. “Keep in mind that I don’t like being made to work for things. I like it when it comes easy.”

 

The boy scoffs, in disbelief at Soonyoung’s entitlement and expectations. Then he turns around, slowly, raking dark, lazy eyes up and down Soonyoung’s body, making no attempt at hiding the way he sizes him up for the first time. “I think you need to be knocked down a peg before any of that can happen. I think you need someone to chew you up and spit you out.”

 

Soonyoung smiles, cracking his knuckles. This isn’t how he envisioned any of this to play out, but he’ll take it. Everything is a game, and he isn’t one to shy away from a challenge. “Be my guest.”

 

 

“So. Jeon.” He learned his name through word-of-mouth, because new students are always exciting, especially when they’re as much of a sight and presence as Wonwoo is. “You didn’t need to slice me to bits yesterday. I was only trying to introduce myself. Elegancies and politeness and all that.”

 

Wonwoo is fixing his tie in the cracked, water-speckled bathroom mirror, and Soonyoung is swinging one of the stall doors back and forth with his foot as he watches him. He notices his hands, the winding of knobby pink knuckles into unnecessarily prominent veins. “You were flirting with me, Kwon.” Once again, his voice is enough to set Soonyoung alight, deeply and from the inside out.

 

When it dawns on him that Wonwoo learned his name through someone somehow, goosebumps erupt and redness blazes, and he finds himself all too glad for a filthy mirror and a cold shoulder.

 

Soonyoung watches Wonwoo lean onto the edge of the sinks, watches as the fabric of his blazer stretches taut when his shoulders pull them so. “So I was. If you’re already with someone, you can tell me now. I’ll drop it.”

 

Wonwoo, finally satisfied with the state of his uniform- the dichotomy between his and Soonyoung’s, which is as undone, unbuttoned, embellished, and destroyed as can be, like night and day in the fragmented mirror- finds Soonyoung’s eyes in the reflection, without turning around at all, and smiles at him. It’s almost apologetic. Something about it drenches Soonyoung in a sense of crushing disappointment.

 

 

He rips a page out of a textbook, leaving tufts stuck to its spine, and leans back, propping his legs on his bare table, muddy leather boots and all. It’s made of once-polished oak, now scarred with decades’ worth of etchings left by boys well before his time.

 

Soonyoung writes the first thing that comes to mind, the only thing percolating through him for days now, distracting him to no end. He knew what he was doing, when he smiled and tilted his head just so, blinking his eyes apologetically, obstructing Soonyoung’s fun.

 

He takes his time folding the corners of the paper down into a neat little plane. Then he chooses the right moment, the deans and minders turned away from the breakfast tables, and sends it sailing. It hits Hyunjoon’s back.

 

Hyunjoon plucks it, sets it next to his plate, but before opening it makes a show of turning to shoot Soonyoung a look that, if could kill, would shred him like bullets. Soonyoung’s posture and demeanor are unchanged, and he raises his eyebrows, nodding towards the paper-plane.

 

Hyunjoon finally opens it, rolling his eyes when he reaches out for a pencil. Soonyoung’s anticipation mounts at this, and he leans forward, not knowing what to expect, not knowing whether this will be the one time things don’t align in his favour.

 

Hyunjoon crumples the paper into a ball and tosses it in a high arc behind him, and Soonyoung catches it. He licks his lips, a tiny tongue slipping out to wet the corners and catch on his teeth, and he can’t help the well-pleased smirk that decorates them when he reads Hyunjoon’s reply. Hyunjoon, who, despite being a mere fourteen years old, amasses information about everyone living within their school’s gated property; and he wouldn’t usually give it out like this, either, not without a hefty favour paid in return, had he not been Soonyoung’s blood relative.

 

_Wonwoo? The only things Wonwoo sleeps with are his schoolbooks._

 

 

After a few hours have passed, and once Soonyoung sees him again, tying his shoelaces on a bleacher on the edge of the court, something in his usual nonchalance bursts, erupting within and filling him with a feeling he can’t name. Blades of weed and wilting ornamental flowers graze his ankles as he cuts his way through hedges and secret, untrodden paths over to where Wonwoo sits, and even the expression Wonwoo gives him isn’t enough to keep him from fanning the beginnings of the fire smoking and catching between them.

 

“Jeon, I’m curious, why is it that you look like you’re late to your own funeral whenever you see me?” Soonyoung lets the words settle, watches the gentle way Wonwoo’s face shifts when he takes them in.

 

The stiffness breaks and his lips spread into a callous, crooked smile. “Well, not everyone is susceptible to your arrogance, popularity, and attempts at flattery, Kwon.”

 

“Pretending to already be with someone just to set me off was the wrong way to get that message across.”

 

“But I never said I was. It’s your fault for running with your assumptions,” Wonwoo tells him, twisting the racket’s hilt between his palms. He gazes up at him through the weak autumn sunlight, his ploys hidden behind wide-eyed innocence.

 

“Not cool. Not cool at all, Jeon,” is all Soonyoung mutters, arms crossed tightly, the heat of Wonwoo’s eyes on him making his entire body bristle and tense. It makes his senses tingle, the sunlight on his back warmer and the breeze on his neck colder.

 

“I don’t understand why it’s so important to you,” Wonwoo’s reply is leisurely, but he stands up and faces him, and he smiles, because he’s pleased with this state he’s singlehandedly and wordlessly put Soonyoung in, within barely a week of being here. “Unless you have a thing for me.”

                                                                                  

Soonyoung scoffs and steps into Wonwoo’s space, so the tips of their shoes are touching, Wonwoo’s nose brushing against his. It’s getting harder to breathe, his heart pounding into his throat, but he continues pushing himself to his limits, to see how much of Wonwoo he can take. “I know you know what all of this is about. And you wouldn’t be indulging me right now if you didn’t want me, even slightly, if only for a lick of the frosting.”

 

“The whole school wants you,” Wonwoo says, out of nowhere. He keeps diverting their conversations, conducting them so they end up exactly where he wants them to go.

 

“And you know who I want?”

 

“The only person who isn’t interested.” Wonwoo rolls his eyes but refuses to move farther away, for all his claims of disinterest.

 

“What do you get out of doing this to me?” Soonyoung hisses impatiently, flaring up again.

 

“Oh, Kwon, I’m not trying to hurt your feelings,” Wonwoo says, his voice and his smile a sugarcube of sickly, cloying sweet, leaving Soonyoung wondering how such words don’t scorch his lips on their way out.

 

“Then why do you smile when my face falls?” Soonyoung sucks air in, as though stolen from Wonwoo’s lips, because he’s still lingering so close. Wonwoo seems breathless, if for a moment.

 

“The best things in life never come easy,” he makes a show of swallowing, audibly, running a moist red tongue over his teeth, and Soonyoung’s eyes stray. But so do Wonwoo’s, his gaze darting from Soonyoung’s piercing, narrowed eyes to the tip of his nose, to his blissfully ripe lips, and finally down to the bobbing notch of his throat. “Make me want you, Kwon. Surprise me. Then we’ll talk.”

 

 

 

Wonwoo wants nothing more than to toy with Soonyoung’s mind, to make Soonyoung work for him, because he refuses to hand himself over on the silver platter he knows everything’s always been given to Soonyoung on. Not yet, and not so easily, at least. If he’s the cake, the prize and the delicacy at the end of all of this, then Soonyoung’s a birthday candle, and Wonwoo wants to set him ablaze and watch him melt to a stub. Wonwoo wants to know how badly Soonyoung really wants him, the lengths he’ll cross and the rejection he’s willing to endure, if he’ll even last at all in his pursuit.

 

This makes its rounds within the school. The details are left out- because no one besides Soonyoung and Wonwoo knows of them- but the idea of rivalry among a familiar face and a new one is enough to stir up curiosity. The two are so private, in fact, that no one has any way of knowing whether what’s going on between them is tit-for-tat or tête-à-tête. Further, it gives Wonwoo a reputation of his own, a sort of schoolyard reverence for someone whose nonchalance and wit match, and sometimes even overtake, Soonyoung’s.

 

 

Raindrops begin to speckle the page of the book Soonyoung’s sitting and staring at, and a breeze blows so that the papers flutter, settling a hundred pages past the passage he was supposed to be reading. Might as well, because Soonyoung’s eyes are glassy, his thoughts fogged with something entirely different. He’s shaking his leg, tapping and clicking the heel of his boot against the creaky floorboards so the sound fills the room to its brim, bouncing his thigh up and down, rolling the pen between the tips of his fingers.

 

Thunder claps, and someone appears behind him, closing the window with a snap that seals and quiets the vast, vaulting library. Soonyoung’s turning to see who he is, but he slides into the carved oak chair next to his before he can.

 

“Did I look lonely, Jeon?” Soonyoung starts, not intending to sound as unenthused as he does. It’s just that Wonwoo’s face brings churning feelings to the surface within him, too many to count and too many at once, and now that he knows how his and Wonwoo’s interactions have gone, his hopes have stretched very thin that this one will head in any other direction.

 

“You looked like you needed a distraction. Someone to give you a little break from-“ Wonwoo pauses and leans over, closing in on Soonyoung, causing him to press into the back of his chair and hold his breath until his lungs rupture and burst, flipping through his book, “the advanced reading you’ve been doing.” When he moves away and Soonyoung finally breathes, it aches, even more so when he sucks in increments of Wonwoo’s fragrance, piquant and mouth-watering as it is.

 

It’s fitting how he manifests out of the forest of shelves and books stretching behind Soonyoung and brings forth talk of distractions, when he was the only thing- the only invasive, stubborn thought on Soonyoung’s mind- inhibiting him from moving on with his evening.

 

Wonwoo props his elbow on the table and tilts his face into his hand, gazing at Soonyoung in a very odd sort of way. It feels like a glaring spotlight, like he’s about to be shackled and handcuffed and whisked away. It makes the hairs on the back of Soonyoung’s neck prickle, and he tries to move away from it, leaning his shoulder against the cold window-pane. “The thing is. You realize I know absolutely nothing about you.”

 

_Oh._

So that’s what this is all about. Soonyoung’s crooked little smile makes a triumphant reappearance. “I do, but I’m here and willing to tell you anything you want to know, kitten.” He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows, and in that moment, the rain thickens and lightning strikes the meadows and glades beyond the window he sits at.

 

Wonwoo’s only visible reaction to his nickname is a twitch of the corners of his lips. “What’s your favourite part of the school grounds?”

 

“This building’s rooftop. I like the gargoyles.”

 

The sky and the room darken; lanterns and warm yellow bulbs have flickered to life where they hang on every bend and corner of the library by the time Wonwoo winds towards the end of his interrogation. None of the questions seem rehearsed, but all of them are painstakingly rigorous and particular. “Dawn or dusk? Rain or sun?”

 

“Midnight. Snow.” Soonyoung laughs, perhaps too boisterously for a library, at Wonwoo’s scowl.

 

“Favourite dessert?” Wonwoo pauses, deliberating, before interrupting Soonyoung’s sigh. “No weird answers.”

 

Soonyoung sticks his tongue out at him. Then he licks his lips and brings his pen up, biting it between his teeth. “Mille-feuille.”

 

 

Sometimes, Soonyoung thinks his senses- his grasp on the signs he’s being given- are faltering. Sometimes, when he’s lying sprawled on the common room couch, surrounded by faces talking and shouting, tuning the tiny, rickety radios and tossing cassettes so high they hit the ceiling, copying off of each other’s essays and notebooks, playing board games and drinking things Soonyoung knows are prohibited within the dormitories. Sometimes, when he lifts himself up so he’s propped on one arm, running fingers through his soft, mussed hair, and looks around the room to find dark eyes, bedroom eyes, staring straight at him through the gaps between the crowds.

 

Wonwoo holds Soonyoung’s eyes, everything about him coquettish, before finally burying his face behind a book once again, obscuring himself from Soonyoung’s view just when he wants him most.

 

When the lights dim and the crowd thins, snuffed out and quieted for bedtime, one by one, so that only a cluster of half-melted candles in golden holders are left glowing gently on the table next to the armchair Wonwoo occupies, Soonyoung rises up. He knows Wonwoo sees him out of the corner of his eye, but he stays silent until he’s sitting on the table, his shadow casting darkness on the page Wonwoo’s reading.

 

“You’re going to catch on fire,” Wonwoo mutters, without moving an inch.

 

“I want you,” is all Soonyoung says in reply, firm and absolute.

 

“Oh, that’s nice.”

 

Soonyoung rubs his neck, agitated. “Wrong answer, Jeon.”

 

“Well, it’s the only one I’m giving you,” Wonwoo tells him, propping his book up so he can’t see Soonyoung at all. What he does see, however, is Soonyoung’s index finger curling over the top of the spine and dragging it away, revealing his face slowly once again.

 

“I’m not leaving.”

 

Wonwoo closes the book on his finger, marking his page. “I’m fine with that. You can watch me ‘til you rot, if it pleases you.”

 

“Another wrong answer.” Soonyoung searches Wonwoo’s face for any hint of what it was displaying earlier.

 

“You know right from wrong,” Wonwoo whistles and chuckles, and one of the candles sputters out. “I wouldn’t have thought so, Kwon, considering your school records.”

 

“So you’ve read through my school records?” Soonyoung narrows his eyes, drumming his fingers against his thighs, hardly able to rein his patience and composure anymore. “You _are_ interested in me.”

 

Wonwoo tosses his book aside at that, intending to stalk towards his bedroom, to leave Soonyoung in his tracks with nothing but dregs of his presence to soak in. He only makes it past the table, though, before he pauses to listen to what Soonyoung proposes.

 

“The chess board’s still open, the pieces are lined up. If you lose, we do what we both want, even though you insist on burying how much you want me deep down.” Wonwoo’s shoulders tense at that, but still he stays until Soonyoung finishes. “If I lose, we go to bed, and pretend the game never happened.” Now his body relaxes and he turns to face him, stretching his hands.

 

Wonwoo carries the candles over to the large coffee table, sitting in the cast-out warmth of the evening fire’s dying embers. Droplets of wax dribble down the base of the candle and onto the knobs of his fingers, ending up in strings and pearls that lace his knuckles and dry a creamy white. He doesn’t flinch, but his eyes shift to Soonyoung before he cleans them off and sits facing him.

 

Speckles of white, reflections of the fire and the gently swaying candle-tips, pool and glitter in his night-sky eyes when he looks at Wonwoo. His eyes are sparkling, everything about them upturned, a presumptuous calm overtaking their usual vivaciousness. His arms, dress shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and his fingers, pale as ivory, finer and softer than silk, contrast starkly against his black pawns when he makes his first move.

 

“ _En passant_ , Kwon,” Wonwoo says, as he flicks both of Soonyoung’s rooks off the board within a minute, “I’ve never lost a game of chess in my life.” Soonyoung can’t even protest, because it’s his fault for moving so carelessly, his pieces a neck to Wonwoo’s guillotine because his mind is straying and wandering too far out of bounds to notice. And it’s even harder to pull himself together now, after he’s heard Wonwoo’s delicate, tip-of-the-tongue French.

 

“In that case, we’re a match made in hell.” The game slows down, because Soonyoung wills it to, beginning to calculate his movements. Wonwoo is a whisper in the wind, his presence ruffling Soonyoung’s hair and tickling his ears, muddling his thoughts whenever he comes close to winning.

 

Wonwoo gnaws on the corner of his queen’s crown, teeth delectably sharp and glinting in the dark. He does it absently, but even a simple habit like this is enough to twist and drive Soonyoung wild. “Are you ready for your fall from grace, or should I go easy on you for a while longer?”

 

Soonyoung chuckles and tilts his only remaining knight forward, not seeing the gap he created between Wonwoo’s queen and his king. Because all he has are eyes for Wonwoo, not for anyone or anything else.

 

He lets Soonyoung think he’s got him cornered, though, out of burning-hot intrigue. Soonyoung crawls across the table, the chess board rattling dangerously, until he comes right against Wonwoo’s face, their noses a tilt of the head apart. Wonwoo is overwhelmed, because Soonyoung’s eyes are dizzyingly bright and glittering like this, his cheeks and lips moist peaches and cream.

 

The top two buttons of Soonyoung’s shirt are undone, and Wonwoo can see his clavicles and his chest, soft sinews and skin, pale yet pink, tapering down into hips that jut up past the top of his pants, all through the gap where his shirt hangs down. He knows Soonyoung is watching his eyes wander, his lips now probably as upturned as his eyes, but because they’re so utterly alone, he basks in it.

 

He holds Soonyoung’s chin in his thumb and index, touch feather-light, and tilts his head up to kiss him, trailing down his jaw and along the corners of his lips, but never deeply or strongly enough. It’s never enough to count as a real kiss, and that he makes sure of. He hears Soonyoung sigh, and feels him trying to find his lips to kiss them full and proper- that’s when he pulls away.

 

Wonwoo reaches around Soonyoung, moving his queen forward and pushing Soonyoung’s king off the edge of the polished board, letting it roll off the coffee table and bounce onto the rug, watching it idly and lazily all the while. Then his eyes flicker up to Soonyoung’s. “Check.”

 

It all falls into place by a stroke of luck that works in Wonwoo’s favour, even though he wouldn’t have protested if the game had gone the other way; Soonyoung’s way.

 

There’s only one candle left dwindling, puffing thin spirals of smoke into the room, and the fire’s been put out. The chess board’s the only thing that’s upturned now, because the room is dark and cold, as are Soonyoung’s eyes, glittering with nothing but lividness.

 

 “Sleep well, Kwon. Try not to think of what could have been, had you won,” Wonwoo tells him once he’s at the foot of the stairs that lead into his dormitory, blowing him a kiss on the tips of his index and middle fingers.

 

 

Tennis has never been anything but an inconvenience and a bore to Soonyoung, and as a result, every rule has gone in one ear and out the other, every lesson either skipped or tuned out of his memory within an hour.

 

The court is all uniform, dewy grass, grazed and trimmed in paler and darker lines that mark its peripheries. There’s a basket full of bright yellow tennis balls, and a dozen rackets on the bleachers, and then there’s Wonwoo, with one of each in either hand. Pairs of other boys are scattered across the grounds, occupying various other courts, their distant shouts and laughter carrying over in the crisp autumn wind.

 

“You can’t be serious, Jeon. Tennis, of all things?” Soonyoung says, sighing irritably. He pushes his hair out of his face and crosses his arms. This is his default when he’s around Wonwoo; arms crossed tight, a hip jutting out as he leans on one leg, eyebrows furrowed, and lips plump.

 

“I do it just to spite you.” Though he sounds dry, Wonwoo can barely contain his amusement, his lip-tails refusing to hold still. “And don’t expect me to believe that we’re partnered out of pure coincidence. I’d like to imagine a few calls home and another hefty donation to the school treasury got you what you wanted this time, huh?”

 

The holly bushes behind him quiver, shedding bits of old leaves that crackle when they hit the mulch and mud. Soonyoung ambles over to the rackets, sifting through them as though each and every one wasn’t in mint condition for the new school-year, and responds as he stretches his arms above his head and tests the racket’s grip. “You give my parents too much credit. This is my domain; my rules, my influence.”

 

“Are we going to play or not?” Wonwoo interrupts, looking at the distant mountains, low-hanging grey clouds spilling over them and filling their nooks and crevices with fog and rain, rapidly approaching the glades the school grounds are situated amongst.

 

“Conditionally.” Soonyoung expected the eye-roll and the slow, expelling sigh. “Don’t worry, the stakes are lower than they were the other night.”

 

“Isn’t anything, by comparison-”

 

“Listen, if you lose, you have to tutor me in French for the rest of the year.”

 

Wonwoo’s words die in his throat, and his eyes narrow slowly. But Soonyoung can see him coming close to asking how he knew he spoke French, and why he wants to be tutored, before piecing the answers together himself. “Fine,” is what he settles on saying, picking a new tennis ball out of the basket and bouncing it up and down a few times.

 

“Don’t you want to set your own conditions, on the unlikelihood of me losing?”

 

“Oh, Kwon,” Wonwoo says, before he positions himself at the center of the court, squeezing the ball and tossing it up, raising his racket high to meet it, to send it sailing over the net, “seeing your smugness shattering and your inevitable anger will be more than enough of a trophy for me.”

 

                                                                                                                     

A rich yellow moon hangs low over everything; the rolling mountains, the glades, the tops of the evergreens, the glint of the curled iron gates lining the grounds. At this time of night, all the buildings are supposed to be bathed in blackness, lights out for bedtime, and it’s so quiet that a screeching hoot and the whoosh of feathery owlish wings taking off for a hunt stays ringing in the ears of anyone awake to listen. There is one small square of light, blinding and stark against its surroundings. The light stems from a lesson scheduled at midnight, the only classroom that stays open after-hours.

 

The room’s empty save for Soonyoung, who sits in the professor’s chair while he waits for Wonwoo’s arrival. He brought three of his textbooks and a few pens, though he’s beginning to wonder whether or not Wonwoo will commit to their agreement, especially after the spectacular turn of events yesterday, how Soonyoung had glowed while Wonwoo seethed quietly.

 

 _“En passant,_ Jeon,” Soonyoung had said, mocking Wonwoo’s own words, as he tossed his racket somewhere to his side, where it gets caught in the top of the forked holly bushes, “I’ve never lost a game of tennis in my life.”

 

Now Wonwoo comes in, and there’s something about him tonight that’s more understated and gentle. It might be that his hair is haphazard and slightly damp, or that he’s in a sweatshirt instead of something crisply tailored and hemmed with silk, or that he knows Soonyoung’s the only one around to see him, and so he gives him a smile, simple and sweet as that. Soonyoung finds this Wonwoo easier to adjust to but harder to ignore, especially when he comes closer.

 

“Shouldn’t we close the door?” Wonwoo asks, looking over his shoulder.

 

“I didn’t know we were planning on being loud.”

 

Soonyoung learns here that Wonwoo’s eyes are just as withering regardless of his state of being. “Never mind,” he mutters, flipping the textbook open and pointing to the first word of a passage. “Start here.”

 

He reads without understanding a word, and he’s hoping to stretch this thinly over the hour, such that Wonwoo won’t berate him and he won’t have to heed the lesson. Not when Wonwoo’s right next to him, his hair smelling like a berry parfait, and his elbows keep brushing against Soonyoung’s arms, his fingertips trailing over his. Soonyoung begins to think about what those hands would feel like wrapped around his hips, bony fingers digging into his skin, and subsequently begins to falter.

 

“Stop, stop,” Wonwoo says, but Soonyoung keeps reading, until he puts his hand over his mouth to silence him, upon which Soonyoung stiffens immediately. “You said you’ve been taking French for three years.”

 

“I didn’t lie,” Soonyoung responds earnestly, crumpling the page of the textbook under his elbow and pressing his cheek into his hand as he gazes at Wonwoo, who sits unfazed despite being a plume of breath away from him.

 

“Well, what French words _do_ you know?” Try as he might to suppress it, Wonwoo’s smiling again, in exasperation as well as amusement.

 

It surprises him; he’s teetering and rocking back on the legs of his chair, such that he almost loses his balance and topples backwards, barely catching himself on the corner of the desk.

 

“The important ones, _ma ch_ _é_ _rie,_ ” Soonyoung whispers, reaching over to fix stray strands of Wonwoo’s hair, to run his hands through it while Wonwoo shakes his head but makes no attempt at moving his hand away.

 

 

There’s a vantage point on the edge of town- one that Soonyoung would normally keep to himself, as a pretty little getaway of his own. It looks out on the school grounds and the mountains beyond them, which isn’t so special until it’s nighttime and the mountains look almost like a cluster of Christmas trees; something in the way the town’s white streetlights flicker on, one by one, wrapping around the winding cliffs and illuminating both the red-tiled roofs and sharp-tipped evergreens.

 

“It’s kind of like a dollhouse. It’s ours to play with until we get bored and move onto other things.” Soonyoung seems drunk, walking with his back to the road so he can look at Wonwoo when he talks, and he keeps kicking up mud and stepping into puddles. Wonwoo has his hands in his coat pockets, listening to Soonyoung’s musings, which are somewhere between frivolous and wise, rotten and ripe.

 

“Other things like ivy league universities?” Wonwoo snorts.

 

“Go to hell, Jeon,” Soonyoung says, tossing the acorn he’d been polishing against the sleeves of his blazer. An anarchist’s school uniform walking in stride with, shoulders brushing against, a wool coat worn with its collar upturned. But Soonyoung knows Wonwoo goes much deeper than the strictness of his dress code implies.

 

“Only if I can drag you down with me.”

 

Soonyoung growls and grumbles under his breath. He’s talkative when he’s drunk, but Wonwoo has no ulterior motives; he’s not trying to siphon anything out of him, he’s just enjoying listening to the things he’s coming up with, and keeping him from straying off the road and into the frost and the conifers.

 

Soonyoung rams his shoulder rather roughly into Wonwoo’s, and breaks the silence before it even settles. “Everyone has a secret, Jeon. Everyone here, even the teachers, and I know them all. So what’s yours?”

 

“What is this? Do you want to get in my pants or pick at my brain?” Wonwoo is taken aback by the sudden delve from shallow musings into the deeper end. Soonyoung is emboldened by liquid luck, but even before tonight, Wonwoo had been noticing how time had played its part, too. Because with every day, every hour, the longer they know each other, the deeper Soonyoung seems to dive. It isn’t what Wonwoo expected to happen- nor is it unpleasant or unwanted.

 

“Tell me your secrets. They’re safe with me,” Soonyoung promises, reassurance falling short when his words slur together and Wonwoo begins to laugh, not unkindly.

 

“Well, what about yours?”

 

Soonyoung shakes his head and sways a little, dizzy. “Don’t have any.”

 

Wonwoo knows better than to believe that, and Soonyoung knows this. So they both spend a minute laughing at themselves, at the gaping hole in the golden lie Soonyoung was trying to weave.

 

“I’ll tell you mine,” Wonwoo finally says. Soonyoung’s eyes crackle with life, like firelight in the dark, and he leans in very close. Wonwoo can smell the remnant of spirits dancing on his tongue. “If you tell me yours. It’s only fair.”

 

Soonyoung sighs. “I should’ve known. Oh, well, I’ll get it out of you someday.”

 

“Yeah, and maybe then you’ll be sober enough to remember it the next morning.”

 

 

His lips. Soonyoung’s eyes always zero in on his lips, whether he tries to tear them away or not. Puckered when he talks, curled when he goes quiet. They’re pointed, as the rest of him is, arcing up at the bow, flourishing into little curlicues at the edges, and so pink, so flushed against his skin. They’re usually glistening, too, and sometimes, as though in a bid to make Soonyoung’s vision blur, his canines peek out, latching onto the suppleness of his lower lip.

 

His lap. The way his hand hangs between his legs, comfortably perched along his inner thigh. The way he sits with his legs splayed apart, like he owns the place, his desk chair a throne and the professor his subject. The way his confidence never wavers; he’s quiet, but he’s loud. His actions are small but decided, his words assured and easy, rolling his neck and cracking his knuckles and twisting the cufflinks on his sleeves.

 

Soonyoung slides a small bronze key, curled and old-fashioned, across the table, drawing out the action. “Come to my room.”

 

Wonwoo purses his lip and slides the key back without looking at him. “In an alternate world where I’d take you up on your offer, I still wouldn’t use this to get in.”

 

Soonyoung slides it back, adamant. “Keep it, in case you change your mind.”

 

“I told you I have no use for it.”

 

Soonyoung slides it back a final time, and it stays sitting under Wonwoo’s nose for the rest of the hour. “Let’s continue working on my language skills. Unless you’re finally going to give in, in the middle of an abandoned classroom,” he says. He looks around, and pretends to inspect his nails, before adding a much-needed afterthought. “Not that I would mind.”

 

Wonwoo clears his throat, and his gaze glides right over Soonyoung’s head and at the scenery between the smudged windowpanes.

 

And like that, the second one edges up on Wonwoo out of nowhere, so stealthy and sudden that he doesn’t stand a chance.

 

This one comes when Soonyoung’s packing his book bag and lets his pen slide off the table, deliberate as can be. When he leans down to pick it up, he rises slowly, mouth hovering next to Wonwoo’s ear. “See you tomorrow, or maybe even sooner, _mon amour_.”

 

Wonwoo is glad Soonyoung walks away after that, because his ears have warmed to a deep pink. He pockets the key before turning off the lights and shutting the door behind him.

 

 

 

“What will it take for me to propose an idea and not be met with your immediate refusal?” Soonyoung says, reminiscent of their very first meeting. He tosses a coin in the air and catches it in his palm routinely, leaning back on the pulsating, fluorescent arcade cabinet.

 

Wonwoo stands directly in front of him, caging Soonyoung into his current stance. “It’d obviously have to be a compelling idea, Kwon. Spit it out already.”

 

“I’ve always wanted to skip school for a few days and disappear into one of those snowy university towns when they’re all prettied up for the new year, and the cherry on top would be to have you by my side.” Soonyoung says it all in one breath, hardly pausing between words, but somehow, to Wonwoo’s ears, it doesn’t ring desperate.

 

“No.”

 

“Oh, come on, live a little!”

 

“And die young?”

 

“Sure, if it gives you a taste of happiness,” Soonyoung bites back fervently.

 

“Your idea of happiness seems very twisted,” Wonwoo says, but his words come without judgment. He hops onto the billiards table behind him, perching himself on its very edge, his face (and body) still far too close to Soonyoung’s in this quiet little corner they’ve crammed themselves in.

 

Soonyoung winks and resumes tossing the coin, having paused in the heat of the previous moment. “My worldview _is_ very twisted, kitten. It’s part of my charm.”

 

Wonwoo shakes his head, but he’s smiling, and it’s terrible that he can’t stop himself from doing so anymore. “I’d say I’m a little less than charmed right now.”

 

Soonyoung’s closeness blurs Wonwoo’s vision as his eyes try to focus on his. “But you’re not repelled.”

 

“Right,” Wonwoo mumbles, index finger digging into Soonyoung’s shoulder as he pushes him a safe distance away.

 

“So come with me.”

 

“No,” he repeats, but this time, it’s much softer, much less final. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes; ever heard of that one?” Wonwoo is talking about breaking rules and leaving the pieces all over the school grounds for the professors to find, about detention and expulsion and angry letters sent back and forth from distant parents.

 

“Well, you’re not stupid.” Soonyoung chooses to misconstrue him entirely. What makes these words so much stronger, so much more solid, is how sincere and earnest Soonyoung sounds when he says them, such that they sound less like a line and more like genuine, thoughtless truth.

 

Wonwoo has a hard time coming up with a reply, and he almost doesn’t care about the joy that blossoms on Soonyoung’s face when he sees that he’s rendered him speechless, if for a split-moment. “You calling me a prize, Kwon?”

 

“Jeon, why do you always act so-”

 

Wonwoo runs his fingers through his hair, and pulls his flight jacket open, hands in pockets. “ _Ta-da._ Better get to unwrapping me, then, you don’t know what I could be hiding inside.”

 

 _“Sssh,_ ” Soonyoung whispers, finger pressed to his lips, looking around them and trying not to laugh, and Wonwoo kicks Soonyoung’s shins with the tips of his boots.

 

 

“I told you I’d think about it,” Wonwoo sounds like he was asleep, lazy and drawling and slow.

 

Soonyoung, on the other hand, is still burning strong, effervescent and reckless and impatient as ever. “I’ve given you time to come to a decision.”

 

“It’s barely been two hours, Kwon!”

 

“Come on, don’t leave me hanging,” Soonyoung begs, static beginning to build from his end of the line.

 

“Would you rather I hang _up_?” Wonwoo asks dryly, and Soonyoung can hear both the smirk in his voice and his fingers toying with the tightly-coiled phone cord. He teases for no good reason, for a chance to exercise his power over Soonyoung time and time again.

 

“Jeon, please.”

 

“Fine. I’ll meet you at the bottom of the stairwell, by the statues.”

 

“Cool beans,” is all Soonyoung says before jamming the phone into its holder, but what Wonwoo doesn’t hear is the triumphant whistle Soonyoung lets out, echoing into the night as he leaves the phone booth.

 

 

Once more, a single square of blinding light sits stark against the rest of the pitch-black building, but this time, instead of an abandoned classroom, it’s the very heart and core of the school; the expansive principal’s office, supposedly locked after-hours.

 

Wonwoo’s silhouette can be seen from the schoolyard, sitting sprawled on the window-ledge, rummaging through old documents and poring over student files. Soonyoung is sitting in the heart and core of the office- he’s fidgeting in the principal’s chair, feet up on the desk and head resting against the dark-green leather cushion.

 

“Having fun with whatever boring paperwork you’ve unearthed, I hope?” He calls over, twisting the chair around to face him and plucking a hand-painted globe off the table as he does, running his fingers over its smooth glass.

 

“Be quiet, I’m trying to read about you,” Wonwoo says, eyes concentrated and unwavering as he scans through Soonyoung’s file.

 

Soonyoung’s heart begins to bubble and churn. “Why read that, when I’m here and I can tell you all about my achievements _without_ stripping them of their impressive details.”

 

Wonwoo clicks his tongue and hums, mostly to himself, tuning Soonyoung out in favour of a bland, wrung-out version of the events that played out years ago as a result of his distaste and dissatisfaction. Soonyoung’s fingers are matches, and in this instance, the school was the box, and his gentle touch was enough of a strike to set it all alight.

 

“See these?” Soonyoung speaks again, running his fingers along the ridges and ripples that the school hastily attempted to cover with new wallpaper. The wood is still warped and, in some corners, charred. “All from me. So that my memory’s etched into this place, long after I’m gone.”

 

“You sure have made your mark,” Wonwoo says, expression flickering imperceptibly. He closes Soonyoung’s file and tosses it onto the ground. “You’re wild, but it doesn’t impress me.”

 

Soonyoung opens a high drawer and begins to search through it for plain papers and a fountain pen. “They all say that. What does impress you, Jeon?”

 

“I want you to have the willpower and self-restraint to leave this room untouched tonight- that is, besides the forged guardians’ signatures we’ll be leaving enveloped on the desk.” He stops and smiles, wickedly, ruthlessly, sharp as the wind on a clear night. “For me.”

 

“What do I get out of that?” Soonyoung complains. He leans down and begins to painstakingly etch out a carbon-copy of his mother’s scrawl, holding out an old signed approval form for reference.

 

Wonwoo comes over to him, and runs his hand along the nape of Soonyoung’s exposed neck. “You win me over, just a little more. You make me want you as much as you want me.”

 

“Fine.” Soonyoung kicks at one of the armchair legs for good measure, before passing Wonwoo the pen and crossing his arms sourly. “Such a killjoy,” he adds, hoping Wonwoo feels his gaze glowering down on his beautiful shoulders and back.

 

 

Wonwoo’s willpower is paper-thin and swaying with every breath blown his way, and it’s a wonder how Soonyoung hasn’t shredded it yet. It’s visible in both the way Wonwoo looks at him and looks away from him, stifled longing that quickly turns into austerity. It’s visible in the way Wonwoo attempts to avoid him, to avoid interaction with him, but all the same, can’t help but want to come across him as often as possible.

 

It’s most visible, and most telling, in the way Wonwoo knows which dormitory is Soonyoung’s, despite never stepping foot in it- the floor, the number tacked on the door, the fact that he has his whole room to himself. But he hides it by knocking thrice, instead of admitting himself using the key forgotten somewhere in his blazer pockets.

When Soonyoung answers, Wonwoo finds it hard to remember what he even came here for. He can see a bed and a desk behind him, equal parts messy and haphazardly tidied, a sweatshirt thrown over the headboard and the frosted window cracked open. Soonyoung himself is dressed scarcely for the weather, and his hair looks like it’s had hands running through it one too many times.

 

Wonwoo looks down, and seems to collect himself. “You left your French textbook with me earlier,” he says it carefully, holding the book out for Soonyoung to take, watching his face closely all the while. There’s no prominent shift in expression, no telling smirk or quiet triumph, and Wonwoo finds it hard to discern whether the textbook being forgotten was a ploy or a simple accident.

 

Soonyoung takes two steps backwards, and Wonwoo follows him in, shutting the door gently behind him. “Do you still have the key?” Soonyoung asks, setting the book down on his bed.

 

Wonwoo nods. “I think it’s still in my pocket.”

 

“Why didn’t you use it, then?” Soonyoung’s voice is soft, so soft, just above a whisper.

 

Wonwoo shrugs, and Soonyoung comes very close. “So prim and proper. Ever the gentleman, aren’t you, Jeon?”

 

“Oh, just come here,” Wonwoo mumbles, caving in at last. He reaches out and grabs at Soonyoung’s scruff, pulling him in by the nape of the neck. Soonyoung closes in on him, and Wonwoo is overwhelmed until their lips finally meet, and he forgets about everything else. Soonyoung’s lips are plumper and warmer than Wonwoo could’ve imagined them to be, a soft pillow, sweeter than fruit, pressed against his.

 

Soonyoung’s body pushes up against him, backing him into the closed door, fingers clutching tightly at his shoulders and arms. His kisses are hungry, and his hands roam as though in disbelief, as though this is a dream and he’ll wake up alone in a cold bed any minute.

 

Wonwoo feels a nagging in the back of his head, willing him to stop, but his heart is swelling too dangerously to care, and another part of him is wondering why he didn’t succumb to Soonyoung sooner, if this is how good it feels to be in his arms, to kiss his lips.

 

He moves them slowly, maneuvering Soonyoung towards the bed and pushing him down. Soonyoung is compliant, but he’s impatient, pulling Wonwoo down onto him, his eyes sparkling like nothing Wonwoo’s seen before.

 

Wonwoo climbs onto Soonyoung’s lap, wrapping both legs around his waist and holding his jaw delicately in his hands, so he can tilt his head up and get his fill of his lips. Soonyoung kisses him endlessly, unable to stop and unable to satisfy himself.

 

It’s quiet, the room full of sighs and gentle breaths, until Wonwoo goes a little further, pressing his hips down into and against Soonyoung’s, and Soonyoung groans into Wonwoo’s ear. It runs feathers down his spine, and sets his whole body alight with goosebumps.

 

Wonwoo ends up perched on Soonyoung’s lap, sighing and gasping, head thrown back and throat bobbing as he moves against him. Sweat beads his temple as he presses into his thigh, the friction of their clothes against each other heightening the sensation. Soonyoung’s toes curl at the sound of Wonwoo unraveling slowly in his arms.

 

One of Wonwoo’s hands is in Soonyoung’s hair, tugging loosely at it as they move, and Soonyoung’s, in turn, are wrapping around handfuls of the fabric of Wonwoo’s dress-shirt, half its buttons now undone. He pulls him closer, wanting more, but not knowing how much more he can get away with.

 

Wonwoo’s losing control. He begins to nip and bite at the creamy, supple flesh of Soonyoung’s clavicles and neck, the taste of his skin so delectable and saccharine on his lips. His other hand squeezes at the top of Soonyoung’s thighs, digging indents into the malleable flesh. They’re almost there, almost there, and then- it all stops.

 

He slows down. He leans into Soonyoung for a moment, his heat, his cologne, his rapid breathing overwhelming, lazily kissing him where his neck meets his jaw, before rising up and walking away as though nothing had ever happened beyond handing him his textbook. But Soonyoung’s collarbones are still bitten purple and deep pink, and Wonwoo’s shirt is still wrinkled and slipping off his shoulders, and both their lips are still swollen and slick, and Soonyoung has tears, of knowing that this was all too good and too soon to be true, sparkling in his eyes.

 

 

The three-hour train ride to the resort town is dangerously silent. Wonwoo and Soonyoung are like strangers sitting across from each other, avoiding eyes, flinching whenever their knees brush against each other’s, each of them taking the quietest breaths, straining their eyes in their efforts not to stray away from the window and into the compartment. Eventually, Wonwoo pulls out a book and hides behind it, and Soonyoung hopes he feels his gaze piercing even through the hard, leather-bound cover and the hundreds of pages.

 

They disembark silently, too, but it’s not really awkward- rather, the silence is crackling with unresolved confusion and bitterness, especially on Soonyoung’s end. Wonwoo takes to walking a few steps behind him, following him closely as he finds their way to the hotel room.

 

The elevator is slow, and being confined between four walls makes the silence feel sickening. Soonyoung has no choice but to face Wonwoo, for even if he chooses to turn his back to him, Wonwoo’s devastatingly beautiful, unaffected reflection greets him in the mirror.

 

Wonwoo is the first to break it, as Soonyoung had hoped, while he’s fumbling with the keys to their room. Just when Soonyoung was beginning to feel suffocated. “Whatever happens in this room stays in this room, right, Kwon?”

 

He sounds so lighthearted, as though nothing at all had happened the night before. Soonyoung swallows his feelings and decides to melt the tension between them by giving Wonwoo a crooked little sneer in reply.

 

 

What happens in the room is nothing Soonyoung would want anyone to know about, but it’s also none of the things he’d expected.

 

What happens in the room can be watered down to this: Wonwoo, lying with his head in Soonyoung’s lap, Soonyoung’s thighs a better pillow than goose-down will ever be, gazing vacantly at the ceiling as he illustrates and envisions a happening from a few years back, raising his hands for visual aid and then bringing them back down to rest in Soonyoung’s own. He adds in bits of his own commentary, and he laughs loudly and freely, and Soonyoung has never been more taken, more charmed, more willingly wrapped around someone’s finger.

 

“I haven’t shared this with anyone before. You like the exclusivity, don’t you?”

 

“Sure I do, but you _wanting_ to tell me about things you’ve never told anyone else is what’s really winning me over,” Soonyoung says, words honest and pure. Wonwoo beams up at him, before burying his face away, overwhelmed. That’s another thing Soonyoung has recently learned about Wonwoo; not only is he more straightforward and lighthearted than he’d ever seen him be before, but he has a bashfulness to his actions in private, too. A hesitance, a gentle shyness to his gestures and his face.

 

 

There comes a point where they retire into an elegant little café nestled under carved, canary yellow eaves, after a long day of ambling through the town. Wonwoo sits across from Soonyoung, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, pale forearms resting against the glossy tabletop. Lips puckered and wrapped around the straw, chewing and gnawing at it thoughtfully as he talks. Soonyoung gulps, and his drink hasn’t even arrived yet.

 

“Why are you staring at me so hard, Kwon?” Wonwoo asks, tilting his head to one side as he does. His eyes glitter, and his leg bounces up and down under the table.

 

“Oh, you’re playing innocent now.”

 

Wonwoo can’t resist smiling at this. He loves twisting Soonyoung into a tangle, only to undo the ball of yarn he’s made slowly and meticulously. “Tell me what I’m doing that winds you up into such a flurry.”

 

The waitress brings Soonyoung his cherry lemonade, far too cool and fruity considering the slush and frost lining the streets and the café windows, and he takes a sip of the tartness he craves every so often while he waits for her to finish serving them. When she’s out of earshot, he speaks. “You’re like those dreams where you’re chasing after something and when you round the corner and catch up, it ends up farther away, just out of reach.”

 

He sees goosebumps flare up along the ridge of Wonwoo’s neck, and he so badly wishes he could kiss his skin smooth again. “Kwon. Did you just call me a dream?”

 

Soonyoung sighs, stirring his straw through his drink. “Yes, but you missed my point entirely.”

 

 

Later that same night, Soonyoung finds that out-of-bounds hotel rooftops have an appeal of their own, especially when the sky is alive with stars and fireworks. He had left the room while Wonwoo was showering, and he expected him to question his absence but go to bed regardless, so he feels a stirring deep in his chest when he hears the emergency stairwell’s door creak open to admit someone behind him.

 

Soonyoung turns to look at Wonwoo and then turns away again, sitting stiff among the gargoyles lining the roof, blending stony and cold in their midst. “Keeping me company?”

 

Wonwoo lowers himself into the empty space next to Soonyoung’s perch, carefully unfolding his legs so they hang down over the mossy ledge. He’s gazing at Soonyoung, gazing without qualm or restriction, trying to fill his eyes and his mind with this picture, of his nose and his lips and his jaw drawn dark against the canvas of deep blue sky. When he sits so motionlessly, he easily passes for a gargoyle, but then a plume of white breath leaves his lips, and he’s a tapestry that’s come to life, a statue that, rather than move only when its observer blinks, doesn’t still until you look away. He becomes something meticulous, carved out of silver and gold, threads of cobweb and shafts of moonlight on marbled stone. Petite and exquisite. “You like it here, because it reminds you of the gargoyles on the dormitory building’s roof.”

 

Soonyoung nods, but not before smiling all too widely. “You remember everything I say, even the small, insignificant things.”

 

That reaction takes him aback, enough to avert his gaze to the gargoyle he flanks, busying himself running his fingers along the harsh notches and chisels in its face. It feels damp and cold, and Wonwoo would much rather have his hands on warm, supple skin. “What if I push you off?” He jokes, to avert the conversation, because intimate words won’t come to him naturally yet.

 

Soonyoung responds humorously, but there is some semblance of disappointment in his voice. “You want to get rid of me that badly, huh? What ever did I do in my past life, Jeon?”

 

Wonwoo laughs, but says and does nothing more, relishing in the clusters of purple stars and the wind that caresses his cheeks.

 

“You really hate me, don’t you?” Soonyoung sighs, and for once, it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to pull an answer out of Wonwoo. It doesn’t make Wonwoo feel guilty, either, because it was mumbled out quietly, rhetorically, an acknowledgement more than anything.

 

Wonwoo hesitates for a while, opening his mouth to talk and then struggling to find the best thing to say. Soonyoung doesn’t get his hopes up, though, because he’s deep in thoughts of his own, his eyes focused on the distant town’s lights peppering the mountain.

 

“I think you’d be surprised by just how untrue that assumption is, Kwon,” Wonwoo eventually says. But once again, because purity and intimacy are still so strange on his tongue around Soonyoung, he gets up and walks away before the weight of his words has a chance to settle.

 

 

The school building is a dark mass, all lights off because no one besides two boys would dare be out of bed at this hour- two boys who, presently, are minutes away from finding themselves in front of locked courtyard gates that Soonyoung had counted on being open. For now, they’re concerned with the snow, thickening into whistling flurries the closer they come to the school grounds.

 

“Oh, and Kwon, I meant to tell you this at some point in our trip,” Wonwoo says. “I _do_ have a secret. In your own words, everyone does.”

 

Soonyoung raises his eyebrows, leading him on, but holds a hand out to silence him when they reach the courtyard gates. He clicks his tongue and curses. “They locked them early.”

 

“What do we do?”

 

“The front gates are guarded, and there are lights all across the lawns and gardens. The courtyard’s our only safe bet, so I guess you’re going to have to hold your secret until we’re over this wall.”

 

The snow has long since settled onto them, but now it begins to melt and soak through their clothes, drenching their hair and dribbling cold down their necks. The rose-bushes lining the school walls sway violently in the wind. Soonyoung goes first, latching his way up the wall with a practiced deftness that tells Wonwoo he’s done this too many times to count.

 

He offers a hand to Wonwoo, but Wonwoo slaps it away indignantly, pulling himself over the wall with the same finesse. Then they leap down into the courtyard, and spend a stolen moment watching the snowflakes accumulating into a velvety whiteness that blankets the rims and ridges of the frozen fountains and ledges.

 

“My secret is simple, and it’s something you have to already know. It’s that I’ve wanted you all this time, just as much as you’ve wanted me.”

 

Soonyoung blanches, then reddens, then takes Wonwoo’s hand and leads him into the building, running two steps at a time up the curving, winding, dizzying stairwells, rumpling the rugs in their wake and in Soonyoung’s haste. Wonwoo knew where he was taking him before they even made it past the statues framing the bottom of the stairs; Wonwoo knew this was what would happen before he even made his red lie, his white secret, known. That’s why he needed to tell Soonyoung now, because he just couldn’t wait anymore.

 

In the silence and solace of Soonyoung’s room, Wonwoo pulls Soonyoung over by the tie around his neck and kisses him hard. When Soonyoung runs his fingers through his hair and sighs into him, he forgets all about the snow, the cold, the rest of the school, the rest of the world. Soonyoung’s fingers are matches, and his touch is enough of a strike to set Wonwoo ablaze.

 

 

When morning breaks, Wonwoo finds that his face is nestled into Soonyoung’s pillow, sweet and soft as the head it usually holds. He pulls the blankets up around himself, and Soonyoung watches him from where he sits on the windowsill. He’s pulled last night’s clothes back on, rumpled and discarded as they were on the ground, and his eyes are so warm, so satisfied and filled to the brim, that Wonwoo smiles sleepily in spite of himself.

 

“Why didn’t you wake me up, Kwon?” He mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

 

Soonyoung rolls his eyes and throws something- a sock- at him. “Don’t even try to start with that. I heard what you called me yesterday night,” he says, making his way over to the bed and falling atop him, wrapping his legs around Wonwoo’s and running fingers down his cheeks and his lips. “And I won’t be forgetting it anytime soon, _Wonwoo_.”

 

Wonwoo kisses him on the cheek. “Good morning to you, too, Soonyoung.”

 

 

\--

 

 

The courtyard is just as delicately beautiful the morning after. Students mill about, and snow continues to fall in spirals that land on lips and tips of eyelashes. “I’m cold.”

 

Soonyoung sighs, shrugging off his coat and wrapping it over Wonwoo's shoulders. Wonwoo’s nose is pink and cold under Soonyoung’s lips. His fingers are numb against Soonyoung’s palms. But his smile is blinding, brighter than snow in sunlight. “Are you just using me while I last, Jeon?”

 

Wonwoo pulls Soonyoung in by the scruff, knocking the air out of him with the force of his kiss. “Most definitely, Kwon.”

 

 

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> i've ruined one of my all-time favourite desserts for myself by including it in this. oh, mille-feuille...
> 
> anyway.... THANKS SO MUCH FOR READING ALL OF THAT!!!!! i sincerely hope it wasn't as bad as i think it is????
> 
> if the chess scene seemed off that would be because i haven't played chess in years. and if this whole thing gives you hogwarts vibes, please try to think of durmstrang instead, because that's the vibe we're going for. if you never want to read this fic again and want a refund from cuddlebone, that's wholly understandable!!!
> 
> it took so many months to write this for No Reason At All... and it was very taxing somehow... and has been outlined since march 2018. i don't know
> 
> thank you so much for reading, happy new year, and i'll love you forever if you tell me about your experience reading this in a comment/any other form of feedback <3 here's my [twitter](https://twitter.com/cuddIebone) and my [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/cuddlebone) <3


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